


Not a Murder Mystery

by shitshow-mcgee (Lautremonde)



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol, Arson, Drug Use, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:50:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lautremonde/pseuds/shitshow-mcgee
Summary: Six months ago, Stan sent him a letter asking for help.  And now he’s dead.Rick just needs to know if he’s next.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Stanchez Micro-Bang](http://stanchez-bang.tumblr.com). I was incredibly pleased to work with the illustrious [Wortwood](http://wortwood.tumblr.com), who produced cover art for this fic. 
> 
> Thanks also to the number of people who read through this in its infancy. I couldn't have done it without you!

[ ](http://wortwood.tumblr.com/post/152474699498/my-contribution-to-shitshow-mcgees-super-intense)

Six months ago, Stan sent him a letter asking for help. And now, he’s dead.

Rick had been otherwise occupied at the time with his divorce proceedings, and he’d never gotten back to Stan. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why Stan had thought to ask _him_ for help. Sure, they’d had some good times together, made a few bucks, made _more_ than a few enemies - but when you leave a guy in a Colombian prison, it really changes the nature of your relationship.

The last time Rick had seen Stan, the man had just crawled his way out of _that_ blood-soaked sauna, and Rick was sure he must have taken a lot of risks to get back stateside.

Stan had shown up at Rick’s door, a reminder of darker times so grimy that he’d practically left a handprint on Rick’s white picket fence. Rick had answered the door with Beth in his arms, and his ex in the kitchen.

Rick had all but closed the door in his face.

At the time, he’d thought it was what he’d wanted - picket fence part of the parcel. Oxytocin was a hell of a drug. He’d been in love then. Now, Rick can’t believe he’d ever known himself so poorly.

So why _him_? After all these years?

...They _had_ made more than a few enemies together.

On his flight up to Oregon, Rick tells himself that _that’s_ why he has to know what happened. He might not have a family anymore, but he still has a daughter - and if the people he and Stan had pissed off were out hunting heads…

He should know.

* * *

Rick gets into the closest airfield to Gravity Falls, Oregon off a red-eye at three AM. He feels simultaneously wired and exhausted.

He calls for a taxi from a pay phone, so he can go get a rental car. Then he drives to Gravity Falls.

It's five AM when he arrives. The summer sky is just barely turning pink.

He doesn't know where to go.

* * *

He finds a liquor store, and waits in the car until it opens.

The clerk can't tell him anything about Stanley Pines - beyond remarking the name is familiar - but he does sell him more than enough liquor to keep his flask full.

The clerk tells him about a motel with a vacancy.

* * *

The motel is barely a mile outside of town, right on the lake. It's… _quaint_. Looks more like a connected series of log cabins than a motel. In the summer, the motel has more than enough business - but they're still happy to hand him the keys.

On his way to his room, Rick is nearly bowled over as kids charge headlong out of doors, right into the water. A parent smiles apologetically to him on their way past. Rick just frowns. The sunshine doesn’t feel like it’s penetrating his skin. The happy screams from the lake feel dead in his eardrums.

He likes that there's front and back windows (however small and high the back ones might be) and a little kitchenette for him to keep the liquor in. He's not sure how long he’ll be there. He sets the liquor down on the little strip of counter between sink and refrigerator.

From the kitchenette, he looks back across the bed, eyes skimming along wood paneling to the door.

He wants to turn right around, start asking questions _now, now, now_.

Before he heads back into town, he pauses to use the bathroom. His reflection catches his eye.

He has a moment of clarity. “You look insane, asshole,” he tells the mirror.

He doesn't go into town. Instead, he drinks until he falls asleep.

* * *

Rick wakes up at six in the evening, and the world is real again. He has feeling back in his fingers and toes that he hadn't noticed he was missing. He also has a headache, and he's hungry as fuck.

He’s passed by running children on the way out of the room again, dashing over to their dad at a grill.

He takes the rental car into town, and finds a diner. A greasy spoon type place, but appropriatley woodsy for the town － log walls, wood tables, yellow vinyl booths, stools at the bar to match. He slides into a booth.

“Hey there, handsome,” says the waitress with a lazy eye, “The name’s Susan, how can I help you?”

“The number five combo sounds de-eh-licious,” he says. Pancakes could help a lot right now.

“Coming right up!” she says.

Breakfast all day is one of very few joys in an entropic universe. Rick savors his pancakes.

He has a quarter of a pancake left when Susan comes back to check on him: “Need anything else there, sweetheart?” she asks.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, stuffing his crumpled napkin under the edge of his plate, “There was a crash outside town, bad enough to make the paper, kn-ow anything about the, uh, guy - the victim? Stanley Pines?”

She frowns, “Oh I heard about that, just six days ago? Such a shame - was a young fella wasn't he? My age, I think.”

“Oh, oh, yeah? Know what he was doing here?”

“Well, he wasn't in town for long - visiting his poor brother I guess,” she says. She rubs unconsciously at her lazy eye.

Stan had sent him a letter from here six months ago, in the dead of winter. “ _How_ long was he in town?”

“Well I'd never seen him, and we don't exactly have a lot of competition,” she laughs and winks - well, kind of. The lazy eye doesn't cooperate. Rick feels awkward looking at it.

“Drove them out of business with your fa-an-tastic pancakes?” he asks, smiling widely.

She laughs, and lightly swats his shoulder. “Charmer,” she says, “I've seen plenty of our Mr. Mystery lately, though － Stanford Pines,” she shakes her head, “Stanford and Stanley! Ha!”

Rick frowns. He'd heard about Stanford Pines, and he hadn't thought that he and Stan were on speaking terms. The guy sounded like an ass. Had Stan been so desperate for help he'd gone to his estranged brother? Hidden out until he got caught?

“Stanley was a-a uh good friend of mine,” he says.

“Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!” She says, “Are you in town to collect the body?”

If Rick was actually in mourning, that would have been a _hell_ of a question. Good thing he’s just here to look after his own skin.

“Yeah,” he says.

“I'm afraid you'll be disappointed,” Susan says, “from what I heard there wasn't much left after the crash. All burnt up.”

Rick frowned, “Yeah? Know where it happened?”

She looked thoughtful. “It must have been out by the cliffs, but I dunno where,” she hums for a moment, “You could go ask the Sheriff.”

Rick gets directions to the sheriff's station, pays, and leaves.

On his way to his car, he sees a car with out-of-state plates － Arizona － slow down as it drives past, then speed away. He frowns.

* * *

 

The sheriff’s station is frustrating.

For one thing, there’s no sheriff － Sheriff Bergholt had apparently already left for the day. For another, the deputy he leaves behind is not helpful.

“I’m just not sure I should tell you?” Deputy Purl says, flicking some papers on his desk into a neater order, “It just seems… rubbernecky?”

“I’m a friend of the family,” Rick says, for the third time, “I’m here to help Stanford Pines with the funeral arrangements － Stanley was a good friend of mine. I would _really appreciate it_ if you could just tell me where the crash happened － I just want to know what happened to my friend.”

Rick has been _trying_ for sympathy, but he can tell his tone is starting to shift over to annoyance. Luckily, Deputy Purl doesn’t seem to notice.

“Rubbernecky,” Deputy Purl repeats to himself, not making eye contact, “Good one, Laurence, real nice,” he adjusts his paperwork again, “It’s just, the family, Stanford Pines, he hasn’t even been out there yet, seems wrong.”

Of course. Why would Stanford Pines give a shit now that his brother was _actually_ dead, instead of just dead _to him._ What a twat.

“Deputy－”

“－No, I’m sorry,” Deputy Purl says, “I’d like to help you out, but I think it’s a bit above me － maybe you should speak to the Sheriff?”

“I would love to,” Rick says.

Deputy Purl smiles at him. Rick waits.

“Oh!” Says Purl, “Yes, the Sheriff isn’t here.”

“Yes,” Rick says.

“At the bar,” Purl says.

“Right,” Rick says, “I’ll go see him then.”

* * *

The bar is what he expected from a woodsy Oregon town. Lots of wood panelling.

Sheriff Bergholt is, and is not what he expected. He’d been picturing a sheriff’s uniform, maybe a mustache, hat, older, a lined face. The sheriff’s uniform is there, the lined face, and the hat, but Sheriff Bergholt is a woman, and doesn’t have any facial hair. She is greying, and her hair is cropped tightly.

She’s halfway through a tumbler of whiskey when he approaches the bar. “Sheriff Bergholt?” he asks.

“Yep,” she says, “someone dying? I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she gestures with her drink to a dart board with a crowd around it.

“No, someone’s _dead_ ,” Rick says, “six days ago, Stanley Pines? I’m here to help with the burial, I just want to see the crash. He was a good friend of mine.”

“Nothing to see out there, friend,” says Sheriff Bergholt, “all burnt up.”

“Some ashes, something,” Rick says, “he was my friend, I’ve got, I think I’ve got an obligation here.”

Sheriff Bergholt hums and sips at her drink, “You’re bringing me down, fella.”

“Yeah, sorry my _dead buddy_ is bringing you down,” Rick says.

She snorts, “Look, it’s getting dark already to be clambering around the cliffs － how bout I take you round there tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Rick says.

“Meantime, there’s still opportunity to get in on the darts tournament,” She smiles.

Rick considers － he’s got nothing else going on tonight, and he’s in a bar.

“If I can get h-hammered first,” He says.

* * *

Rick wakes up to a rapping at the cabin door. He stumbles out of the bed, and wrenches it open to find Sheriff Bergholt, her face as leathery as he remembers it but disturbingly fresh in the morning light.

“What,” he says.

“You wanna go out to the cliffs or no?” She asks.

“Yeah,” Rick says, he scans the lot for the rental car, and doesn’t see it. He does however see a car parked nearby, with arizona plates. He frowns.

“We’ll stop by the bar, eh?” she asks cheerfully.

“Yeah, sure. Lemme just… yeah,” Rick gestures at himself, and closes the door in her face.

He rinses rather than showers, and throws on some fresh clothes. It takes him less than three minutes, and he heads back out the door. Sheriff Bergholt leads him to her car. 

It’s an unfamiliar feeling to be in the front seat of a police car, but she either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice his anxiety.

“Cliffs first, then we’ll grab your car － don’t trust out of towners on these mountain paths. I mean, you’re in town － you know what happens,” She makes an explosion noise with her mouth, “tourists,” she says, and shakes her head.

She glances over to Rick and says “Oh, right. Friend of his. Sorry for your loss. Sucks for his brother too.”

“Yeah － I haven’t seen Stanford yet,” Rick says.

She looks quizzically at him.

“I was uh, more, more friends with Stanley,” He explains.

“Hmf. Stanford and Stanley,” She shakes her head, “They get along?” she asks.

“No,” Rick says shortly.

She hums again, “Figures － our Mr. Mystery hasn’t been out to see the crash or asked about remains. Wonderin’ if he cared to. Good you’re in town then.”

“Mr. Mystery?” Rick asks.

“Was a joke in town. Took a long time for any of us to meet Stanford Pines, all that odd equipment going out to his place, never really came into town. He’s been around a lot more lately though,” she says, “And he’s definitely embraced that whole shtick now.”

“Where is his place, anyways? I should probably h-head out there sometime soon. Start in on uh, uh, arrangements.”

“Hard to miss since he set up that chintzy tourist-suck,” she says, “dunno how he gets any business. _The Murder Hut_ \- guess science wasn’t payin’ the bills.”

“The _what?_ ” Rick asks.

“The Murder Hut. Uses all his weird science crap to get tourists their kicks. We certainly got enough of them in the summer. Every jackass from the city wants to get out in nature. And crash their car up in the cliffs.” She gestures illustratively at a jagged gap in the safety rails lining the curve along the road.

She turns her lights on, and pulls off to the side as much as possible. “Don’t linger in the car - some rube is liable to come rushin round that corner and smash us both up.”

She leads him to the gap in the rail, and they pick their way down the steep, rocky hill. The brush had been flattened by the passage of Stan’s car, so it was easier than it could have been. But the rocks still roll under their feet and they intermittently stumble and lean back into the hill to keep their footing.

The trees rise up around them as they descend and the light dims. Rick sees the remnants of the car along the tree line. It's nothing but blackened metal.

“Here we are,” says the sheriff, “I'll give you a few moments. I'll be right over there, holler if you need me.”

Rick nods stiffly, and stares at the wreck.

No sign of where Stanley might have sat, but there's no sign of much at all - any foliage growing beneath the shade of the trees burnt up. The trees themselves are unmarked besides the gouges and splinters of impact.

In the quiet of the forest, Rick is aware of his own shaky breath.

Something isn't right about the car though - it's not the convertible that he and Stan had ran from the cops in, or fucked in, or _lived_ in.

And not just because it's a burnt out husk.

“This wasn't his car?” he asks Sheriff Bergholt.

“No, rented a damn pinto,” she says, “rental place called three days ago asking about it. _Hoo boy_ were they mad.”

“Guess you were right,” Rick says, “not exactly much to see.”

“Nope. You wanna grab some ashes?” She asks.

It'd be weird to say no, right? How did ordinary people grieve for their friends?

Rick feels around his pockets for anything to put some in, and comes up with his flask. He pours out the remaining alcohol, and bends down to stuff some dirt in. He tries to get a good amount - a lot of it he won't be able to get out of the flask without sending it down the drain.

Does that matter? What, he's gonna put these in an urn?

Fingertips blackened, he stands back up.

* * *

Sheriff Bergholt drops him at the bar to get his rental, and he drives himself back to the motel.

That car with Arizona plates is parked on the opposite side of the lot - not in a space, half on the grass. He can't see without being obvious if anyone is in it, but he feels watched.

He lets himself into the room.

He pulls the flask from his pocket and considers it. He sets it decisively on the nightstand. Stan would probably get a kick out of his final resting place being a flask.

That flask belonging to Rick though? Who knows.

It's better than some strange car - what the hell had Stan been doing in a fuckin rental? Trying to avoid notice? The Stanleymobile definitely isn't subtle.

Makes more sense that Stanley would go off the road, that way - he'd known that flashy piece of junk better than he’d known himself. No way he'd have gone off a cliff in that. Or let himself be forced off.

Too bad he hadn't had bourbon in the flask.

Stan had been a whiny tit at heart, and if he'd had his way he and Rick would have been sitting in clubs with pink drinks all the time.

Not that Rick had a problem with pink drinks, but he and Stan had never been stable enough to afford girly cocktails regularly, always needed to get drunk more expediently.

Stan preferred bourbon, if they weren't going to shell out for mixers - the tonics and grenadines, process and ritual of it all was what he loved. But when they were just getting wasted?

Rick goes to the kitchenette, and pulls a bottle of bourbon from the liquor store bag. He twists off the top and takes a swig.

He'd go see Stanford later.

* * *

Rick makes the decision to swing by the Murder Hut － _what the fuck_ , by the way － towards what he assumes is closing time. At 5:50, he rolls up the bumpy dirt road, to see －

 _Stan Pines_ ushering a crowd of tourists out the door, wearing a shitty suit.

He has one moment of hope.

Then, Rick feels like concrete mix is slowly setting through his whole digestive tract, tight feeling in his throat, and despair all through his stomach and intestines. Stanford and Stan were twins. Of course they look alike.

He steps out of the car and a familiar, grumpy glare snaps over to him

Stan says, “Hut’s closed, pal,” and then, face lightening, “ _Rick?_ ”

...That _is_ Stanley Pines.

A rush of heat washes over him, “What the _actual_ f-FUCK!” he shouts, slamming his car door.

A last tourist looks back curiously, leaning out their car window － but the kids in the back seat must urge them on. They drive away.

“Took you long enough,” Stan says.

“ _T-Took me long enough?_ ” Rick shouts, marching up to the porch, “Wh- _what the fuck!_ Was this just to _bait_ me? That is _low_ Stan, even for you.”

Stan looks confused, and more than a little peeved. “I… baited you? By _writing you a letter_ and saying _explicitly_ that I wanted your help?”

“No, by _faking your death_ y-y-you _piece of shit!_ ” Rick says.

Stan’s eyebrows shoot up in comprehension － and then rapidly furrow. “Jesus christ, Rick, not everything is about _you!_ ” Stan says back, “I just wanted to keep some loan sharks off my tail － I didn’t know it would _bother_ you.”

“Between your _whiny letter_ and your _death_ , I thought hey － _crazy idea_ － that maybe some of the _numerous, powerful enemies_ we made _killed you_ , and were coming for me next! Did you forget we pissed off a fucking _cartel?_ ” Rick asks.

Stan rolls his eyes, “Sorry Rick, didn’t mean to scare you － I guess I’ll have to be more _considerate of your feelings_ next time I _fake my death_.”

“Yeah, _do that_ ,” Rick says, “And now that I know the cartel isn’t co _ming for my family_ , I am _out of here_.”

“Rick, hold on,” Stan grabs his shoulder with a heavy hand as he turns to go, “Just… you’re here, right? I think I’ve got an interesting problem for you, as a, uhhh, man of science. At least take a look?”

Rick snorts doubtfully, “Yeah I’m sure _Stanley Pines_ has a real interesting science problem for me.”

“Then it won’t take you long to solve, huh smart guy?” Stan says. He turns to head back into the Hut, and holds the door expectantly for Rick.

Rick’s teeth grind with unvoiced hurt and he flexes his fingers, thinking.

But then some tension bleeds out of his shoulders. “Yeah, alright,” he says, and follows Stan through the door.

“I know, I know,” Stan says, locking the door behind them, “I’m not the smartest guy in the room _usually_ , much less when _you’re_ around,” he flashes a wide smile at Rick and leads them through the gift shop to stand in front of a vending machine, “but I’ve been working on this thing for months, and I just can’t figure it out.”

Rick is aware he’s being flattered. “The vending machine?” He asks.

Stan’s mask slips, and he gives him a dirty look. He punches in a sequence on the vending machine. The whole of it slides to the side, revealing a hidden passage.

“No, actually, that’s working pretty good.”

He leads Rick down through the passage, then into an elevator. They go down to a sub-basement. Rick starts to feel like he may have misjudged the situation. He steps out of the elevator, and sees banks of computers, thick cabling running across the room, and a _massive_ triangular structure.

“What the fuck,” he says. He gropes in his pocket for his flask and gets it all the way to his mouth before remembering it’s full of dirt.

* * *

Stan explains, and Rick is fascinated despite himself. He looks over the journal Stan had handed him, flipping through the pages, feet tapping beneath his desk chair. Stan hovers over his shoulder anxiously. “There’s more journals, somewhere. But he hid them. I have to get this thing working again.”

“Okay, I give － I gu-eSss your brother really was a genius,” Rick flips over a page describing some kind of half-bull half-human monster and mutters, “a _huge nerd_ , but a genius too. What kind of ass can’t keep his DD&MD campaign separate from his build log? This thing is a-a mess.”

“I know － he spread the schematics across all of them, and filled up the rest with this… supernatural shit.” Stan paces away, staring at the ring in the center of the massive triangular structure, “Was real defensive of it too,” he mutters. He rubs at one shoulder, and shrugs it like he’s trying to work out a kink.

Something in the motion catches Rick’s eye and he looks at Stan, really looks at him, for the first time since he’d arrived.

Stan looks better than when he got back from Colombia, he’ll give him that － but he looks tired. A little pale, too. Compared with the sunburnt mess that made it across the US border, he’s practically a ghost － but also compared with the Stan he first met, back when Rick was cooking meth in Arizona. There are deep circles under his eyes. It looks like he’d been cutting his own hair, which was a poor choice.

“You’ve been working on this?” Rick asks casually.

“Yeah,” Stan says, “trying to － had to keep the mortgage somehow though, started giving tours a couple months back, that takes up some time. I can’t spend as much time on it as I was － but screw it, the time I was spending was useless anyways. I don’t know what I’m doing.” He traces a hand over the edge of the computer bank by the door, “I’ve always fixed what I could, you know?”

Rick feels uncomfortable, seeing Stan’s slumped shoulders. “Uh, yeah,” he says. Maybe it’s quitting time for the night.

“Can you make anything of it?” Stan asks, looking at Rick intensely.

Rick spins in his chair, and flips back to the page with the schematics. “It’s some kind of interdimensional portal, right?”

“Yeah,” Stan says impatiently, “I could have told you that.”

“I-I-I’ve been working on something, uh, related,” Rick says, frowning, “How about you tell me _why_ you want this thing working so badly?”

“Ford went through it,” Stan says, looking at the portal again, “I have to get this thing working again,” he repeats.

“Didn’t you hate Stanford?” Rick asks.

Stan rounds on him, “I don’t expect you to understand _Rick_ － since running out to see if your _ex-fuckbuddy_ is dead is apparently a good enough reason to leave your _wife and kid_ on the _other side of the country_ － but he’s my _brother_.”

Rick stares at Stan, and drums his fingers on the desk. Stan’s shoulders are shaking, staring intensely at Rick. Stan seems to realize what he’s doing, and forces himself to relax, with visible effort. His fists unclench, and he looks at the floor.

Rick turns in his seat, and purposefully sets the journal back on the desk. “I’m done here － get some sleep, Stan.”

“Rick－” Stan begins, desperately.

“Relax, _dickweed_ ,” Rick says, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Stan says, “I － yeah. Yeah.”

Rick stands up and gestures for Stan to take the lead. Stan takes them up the elevator, and back to Rick’s rental car in silence.

The sky is darkening － it’s nearing 9 o’clock.

As Rick climbs into the car, Stan half opens his mouth for a second, and Rick waits. Stan closes it again without saying anything.

Rick starts the car, and abruptly Stan says, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Rick says, barely audible even to himself above the engine. He drives away.

* * *

It’s eleven o’clock. Rick has slept too irregularly to be able to sack out now. He considers the wood paneling on the walls, and takes another shot of tequila directly from the bottle.

He startles when there’s a knock at the door, a shot of adrenaline going through him － before he remembers there’s nothing to be paranoid about, Stan _faked_ his death. There’s no headhunters for the cartel in Oregon.

He still puts in the security chain before he opens the door to see Stan.

He’s left his shitty suit at home, and he’s wearing a simple white t-shirt. Without the Mr. Mystery getup, Rick can see the weight Stan’s put on － guess that suit was working harder than he thought.

“How’d you know the room number?” Rick asks.

“Asked at the desk. Guess Susan told everyone in town you’re here to help me bury my dead brother.” Stan holds up a brown paper bag, in the clear shape of a bottle, “Can I come in?” He asks.

“You _know_ I already hit the liquor store,” Rick says, unimpressed.

“I bet you forgot _these_ though,” Stan says, bringing a plastic grocery bag into sight with his other hand. The plastic is plastered to what looks like a jug of orange juice, condensation forming outside the bag. Some bottles he can’t identify from inside clink together behind the orange juice. He think he sees some limes in there too.

“Well, you’ve convinced me,” Rick says, and closes the door to undo the chain.

* * *

They make screwdrivers in plastic cups and drink them sitting on the bed. Stan brought vodka, but after the first couple they get a little creative with the sodas and grenadine he bought, making layers of color with the other selections from Rick’s liquor store run. They laugh when they turn out tasting terrible － too sweet or too bitter or too _much_ － and go back to standbys.

They’re quickly drunk enough it doesn’t matter, anyways. Rick is at the point where he could go back to drinking straight from the bottle and not even feel a burn, but Stan laughs when he starts to bring the bottle of tequila to his lips and snags it from him. He makes him an _almost_ serviceable mockery of a paloma out of tequila, orange juice, and tonic. He tries for lime, too, but the lime rolls out of his grip under a dull knife, and he gives up.

He hands Rick the glass, and collapses onto the bed face down, staring at the wall, smiling. “I brought salt too － couldn’t find grapefruit juice. I think you’re supposed to put the salt on the glass first, though.”

“Yeah, well,” Rick hiccups, “Don’t － don’t think you’re supposed to try and use table salt either － or plastic cups,” he swirls his drink, smiling.

“We’ve never done what we’re supposed to,” Stan mutters, “but I keep trying to get it right.”

Rick sips at his drink, and says nothing. The silence stretches.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Stan says, finally, “You came, you’re helping, I’m glad － and, I’m ... sure you’re a good father, a good husband. I had no call to say that, just because you came. I dunno anything about it.”

“Nah,” Rick says, after a long moment, “you’ve always had － had g-good instincts, Stan, don’t, don’t fuckin flatter me. You know I wasn’t cut out for any of that shit.”

Stan turns to his side and looks at him, his curled arm propping up his head, “ _wasn’t_?”

“We finally ha-hammered out custody a month or so ago － _lawyers_ , want everything in writing. I have visitation, if I want it,” Rick shrugs, “haven’t.”

“Oh,” Stan says. He reaches out with his other hand, and places it softly on Rick’s thigh, “that’s lousy.”

Rick laughs, “Me? Or the uh, the uh, prolonged divorce and custody procedure, when I would have, would have done whatever just to leave.”

Stan shrugs as expressively as is possible from his side, and rubs Rick’s leg absentmindedly. “The, you know, situation. I mean, you too. That’s fuckin lousy of you. Don’t want to see your kid. But, the situation.”

Rick snorts, “Kid’s a toddler, she doesn’t know the difference. It’s better this way.”

Stan makes a doubtful noise. Rick rolls his eyes － what does Stan know?

Then, Stan very purposefully squeezes Rick’s thigh.

“Are you trying － trying to seduce me by calling me a lousy father?” Rick asks.

“Is it working?” Stan smiles, his face aglow with alcohol. Stan’s cheek is pressed into his bicep, and his smile draws Rick’s attention there. This Stan is softer all over than the bruiser he’d gone to prison with, but beneath that he can still see the shift of muscle.

He likes it. He _still_ likes it.

“Kind of,” Rick says, and sets his empty cup down on the nightstand.

* * *

There’s a crash of breaking glass then an onslaught of heat and light and Rick scrambles out of bed over Stanley, heart pounding. The room is illuminated in red, the entire front of the cabin on fire.

He grabs at Stanley’s arm － they are both suddenly and violently awake and aware － and they stumble, feet catching on the sheets, into the kitchenette. Rick steps up onto the thin strip of counter in one stride － Stan pushing at his back when momentum fails him － and he scrambles at the latch of the back windows. Stan hands him one of the empty bottles from the night before, and Rick smashes out the window.

Stan pushes at his feet as he climbs through the window, the broken glass cutting at his naked body － it gets Stan worse, his larger frame fitting badly through the small window as he comes after Rick.

They run barefoot into the woods behind the cabin as smoke alarms start to blare in neighboring rooms.

They only run a short distance － feet catching and cutting in the dark － and Rick stumbles against a tree.

Stan grabs at his shoulder, hand clammy, “What － _what?_ ” he asks.

Rick doesn’t answer. He feels cold. Stan pulls at his shoulders with both hands, and faces Rick towards him. They grope blindly into each others’ space, pressing together instinctively, and breath together, one, two, three －

“I’ll tell you _what －_ we’re naked in the middle of the fucking woods and, and we don’t － we gotta figure,” Rick takes a shaky breath, “How we’re getting out of here, first thing－”

“－I think I got clothes in my car,” Stan says, and he grabs Rick’s hand and pulls him back towards the motel. It’s easy to find, the sky above it lit up in purples and reds, like dawn.

They skirt the edges of the forest, heading around the back of the motel towards the road.

Luckily, Stan had parked on the road rather than in the lot, in deference to the limited parking for the busy motel. They sprint from the treeline to the passenger side. Stan scrounges quickly under the front seat, and comes up with a t-shirt, he tosses this to Rick.

It’s practically a nightshirt on Rick.

He finds boxers for himself, and they slam the car door. He trips into his boxers as they run around to the front of the motel to see the hoards of fearful families gathering in the parking lot. Kids in pajamas, more than a couple adults are in their underwear or clutching at robes － they don’t look that out of place.

Rick catches something moving out the corner of his eye and abruptly pulls Stan to the side as the car with Arizona plates leaves the parking lot, passing closely by them.

His shoulders quake. He follows the taillights until they disappear into the dark down the road.

He looks back to see if Stan had caught the plates, and sees Stan is staring into the crowd. He follows his gaze to a blond haired man with a worn face, gaping emptily at the fire. He stands a little apart － what happened to his family? Where are they?

Stan turns and says, “Let’s leave － before the fire department blocks up the road.”

* * *

Back at the _Murder Hut_ , Stan hovers over the stove, still in the boxers he'd pulled from the car. He has water heating in a sauce pot. The sun is coming up outside.

Rick sits at the kitchen table with tweezers and a towel, pulling little bits of glass from his feet.

They're both trying not to shake too obviously.

Stan pours some of the hot water into two mugs, adds brandy and honey. He sets one in front of Rick along with the sauce pot.

“I think I can find a bucket or something for us to soak the bits out,” Stan says.

“Just sit your ass down and s-stop fucking walking on it,” Rick says. He takes a sip from the mug. The heat helps. “I think I've almost got mine,” he adds.

Stan sighs, takes the other seat, “that was targeted right? Think the firemen’ll know that?”

“Think it'd be hard to miss － they put a Molotov r-right through the window,” Rick says.

“I can't just run on this one Rick － we gotta figure out what to say.”

“The clerk saw you come in － and the sheriff is gonna be asking questions,” Rick says.

“We gotta figure out how how to keep the heat off us,” Stan says. He takes a long drink.

Rick continues picking glass from his foot. A shard makes a little _tink_ as he places it on a plate.

“The _heat_ off us. Because we just escaped murder by _fire_. Rick. The _heat_ off us,” Stan grins at him like an idiot, blood seeping from cuts all along his arms and shoulders and more.

Rick stares at him stonily － but he feels something unclench inside. He still feels hollowed out and tired, but the tension ebbs out. He snorts, and Stan’s smile relaxes to something more natural.

“Let's say we came back here, after we had a couple drinks. Hide the scrapes. We weren't there,” Rick says.

 

Stan nods along, “we took _Stanley’s_ old car ‘cause nostalgia － _Stanley_ is the one with a criminal record, right? This being dead thing is useful. Maybe we can shove this off on _him_ somehow.”

Rick nods along, and dunks the towel in the hot water. He dabs it at his foot. Most of the sting is out of it, but they should both soak them to draw out any lingering slivers. “Gimme a foot,” Rick says, and Stan stretches one out to his lap.

Rick begins the process of picking out the visible pieces of glass.

“Yeah,” he says, “we don't need a complete story. N-not for the sheriff.”

“For us, though,” Stan says.

“Yeah. We need to know w-who's after us and _why_ ,” Rick says.

* * *

They've cleaned up by the time the sheriff knocks, as much as they can. Rick is dressed in Stan’s clothes － he'd been offered Stanford’s, but that had felt... _Icky_.

The sheriff spots that they don't fit, and seems to accept that as explanation enough for any caginess.

“You had us real worried, when we couldn't account for all the motel guests,” she shakes her head, “Cindy from the night shift told us you'd been by, Stanford, woulda been a real tragedy. Glad you two are alright.”

“Yeah, sounds like a real blaze,” Stan says, “glad we missed it. Everybody okay?”

The sheriff rolls her eyes, “we were worried for a bit because someone's teenager had wandered off － but that turned out alright. Seems like everyone's just fine, now that we got you two accounted for.”

“Yeah, jeez,” says Stan, “sorry to worry you.”

Sheriff Bergholt smiles thinly at him, and turns to look at the treeline, hands in her uniform pockets. She clears her throat, “Now, I don’t mean to alarm you folks. But I haveta say － it seems like the fire was started by someone.”

“What?” Rick asks, sounding appropriately mystified.

“Started by someone and targeted on your room － can you folks think of any reason someone would do somethin’ like that?”

Stan and Rick exchange looks of fabricated horror.

Stan shakes his head, “I － no, I really can’t think of one,” he says.

She looks at them critically － and seems to focus in on the distance between Stan and Rick. Or lack thereof.

Her expression is a flat line, “Well, alright then,” she says. She sighs, “Look, Gravity Falls isn’t as blinkered as every small town － because _I_ don’t truck with any of that, you hear? So if anybody gives you trouble, you let me know. But you folks watch yourselves.” She touches the brim of her hat, and gives them a serious look.

“Of course, Sheriff,” Rick says, obediently.

“That’s what I like to hear,” she says. She nods and heads back to her car.

As she drives away, Stan looks at Rick.

“This is new,” he comments, “she a fan of yours?”

“Played some darts the other night,” Rick says, “definitely a-a uh, novel situation here.”

“Well don’t get used to it,” Stan says, “we’re not telling her jack.”

Rick snorts, “ _Please_ ,” he says.

* * *

Rick wants to turn over every goddamn stone, figure out where it’s coming from, fix things _now_.

“I got a business to run,” Stan tells him shortly, at ten AM. He has his suit back on, covered in question marks.

“We’re fucking － fucking sitting ducks Stan!” Rick says, “And if it’s fuckin, fuckin duck season, _I’d_ rather be holding the gun.”

“Right, so we’ll ask around town after I close up shop this evening. Maybe do a little brainstorming,” Stan says, mildly, as he unlocks the front door to the Murder Hut, “ but you need to _relax_ , Rick. You go off half cocked and you’re just gonna make things worse.”

He gives Rick a serious, concerned look. There’s an unspoken _‘like you always do’_ in that statement that Rick resents. He bristles.

“Why don’t you work the register for me?” Stan asks, “Or, you could take a look at the portal.”

“I’m not leaving you alone up here!” Rick snaps.

Which is how Rick winds up sitting by the cash register, eyes fixed on the traffic coming and going out the window.

“Excuse me? _Hello?_ ”

“What?” Rick asks, blinking back to attention. The customer gestures to the mug he’s buying. It has a question mark on it.

Rick recognizes the man’s blond hair and worn face. He frowns.

“Right,” Rick says. He stares at the cash register, and realizes he has no idea how to work it. He could probably figure it out, given some button pushing. But...

“STAN!” He calls, “work your own goddamn register!” and heads for the back of the shop.

* * *

He roots around in the basement, thinking forward to the coming night. Their hunter is still out there, and he wants to be able to sleep. That means he needs for them to feel safe.

 _That_ means booby traps.

The basement is a goldmine of esoteric equipment. He pokes around the computers, looks at the cabling. The crates are filled with electronic components, a lot of electromagnetic shit.

He considers his options.

* * *

“Rick?” Stan calls, as the elevator door opens, “You down here?”

Rick wrenches his focus back to the scale of the world, blinking. “Uh, yeah,” he says. He frowns at the circuitry in his lap, and sets it aside.

“What you working on? Something for the portal?” Stan asks, just a shade too eager.

“Uh, no,” Rick says, “something to keep, uh, keep us alive through the _night_.”

“Oh,” Stan says, “I guess that’s… a more _immediate_ issue.”

“Yeah,” Rick says, “it _is_. What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Right, you ready to, uh, to start asking questions?” Rick asks, climbing to his feet.

“Your thing done?” Stan asks, nodding at the mess of wires Rick had been working on.

“No, but it won’t take me long when we get back,” Rick says, twisting out the soreness in his back, “so let’s get a, get a-a-a goddamn move on while shit in town is still open.”

“Sure,” Stan says. He turns slowly back to the elevator, casting a lingering gaze over Rick and the Portal. He frowns, and leads the way.

* * *

The woman working the front desk of the motel on the lake is chatty enough, but can only respond with a quizzical look when asked about unusual guests.

The liquor store clerk only blinks slowly at them.

They leave the bar alone. “It’s definitely the sheriff’s haunt － anybody weird _in_ there, we’d hear about it. We wouldn’t want to be asking in front of her anyways,” Stan says. They cruise past on their way to dinner, and Rick scans the parking lot for out-of-state plates. All Oregon.

They get dinner at the diner. Susan is more than happy to gossip about locals, but knows nothing about the tourists. She thinks they’re all a bit weird.

“What else is there in this dumb hick town?” Rick asks, shoveling pancakes into his mouth

Stan frowns. “There’s uh… a library. School. Mudflap factory. Minigolf place.”

“I’m sure we’ll find our _cartel assassin_ playing fucking minigolf,” Rick says.

“You like minigolf?” Stan asks.

“It’s fine, I g- _uess_...” Rick burps, “Why?”

“No reason,” Stan says, “There’s a convenience store － happening place. Gotta grab more bread anyways.”

The sheriff’s jeep is in the parking lot of the _Dusk 2 Dawn_ , and Rick feels an instinctive urge to drive away. Stan is the one at the wheel though, and he pops out of the car and is striding through the automatic doors before Rick even opens his mouth to object. He follows after him.

The convenience store is, against all odds, _actually_ a _happening place_. There are teenagers outside on the side walk, and the store inside is crowded with local patrons.

Stan strides to the wall to retrieve a loaf of bread, and Rick spots the sheriff with a six pack of beer under her arm, speaking with a young black employee, who is eyeing her badge with interest. She flashes Rick a smile, and waves loosely, not pulling away from her conversation.

Rick joins Stan, who appears to be weighing the merits of two different types of heavily processed white bread.

“I thought you were _joking_ ,” Rick hisses.

“Nope. Weird, right?”

“I hate this town,” Rick says.

Stan grins at him, the bastard, and looks around the store. “The owners love talking shit, they might know somethin,” he says, nodding towards the elderly couple standing behind the register.

“Somethin’ ‘bout what?” the sheriff asks, appearing with uncanny stealth.

“Somethin’ about where Rick here can get the proper ingredients for a Paloma,” Stan says loudly, throwing an arm around Rick, and grinning broadly.

“A _what?_ ” The sheriff asks.

“Uh － you know, tequila, grapefruit juice, seltzer? Or. Fresca. Squirt. Those’d work,” Stan says.

The sheriff cocks an eyebrow. “Well, sounds like you’re treatin’ your man right, Pines. Seems to me he takes his liquor just fine straight, though.”

“Well, we uh, we all like the finer things sometimes, Sheriff,” Rick says.

“Mm,” the sheriff hums, then shouts, “Ma! Pa! You got any Fresca in?”

“Is that what the teenagers are into?” the woman behind the counter asks, frowning.

“No Ma’am, guess its what the city folks are drinkin’ these days,” the sheriff says.

“Well we don’t have any, I’m afraid,” says the man behind the counter.

“Guess I’ll just have to take this then,” Stan says cheerfully, bringing his bread up to the counter.

* * *

“Well, this was a colossal waste of time,” Rick says, feet up on the dash as the sun went down outside.

“Got dinner,” Stan says, “groceries. Evening wasn’t a total loss.”

“A loaf of bread isn’t groceries, Stan,” Rick says.

“Oh, well _excuse me_ , Mr. _‘I lived in a real house for the last five years,_ ’” Stan says haughtily.

Rick looks at Stan for a long moment. Stan is remarkably… _Not bitter_ about being left in a Colombian prison. Rick wasn’t expecting that. Is he flattering himself, thinking that that betrayal had meant more to Stan than it apparently did? Or is he not giving a con man enough credit － after all, Stan needed his help. _Needs_ his help.

He opens his mouth to ask, and catches headlights out of the corner of his eye.

He cranes his head to the back of the car. Out the narrow back window, in the last of the daylight, he spots the car with Arizona plates. Following them home.

“Stan,” he says, “anything else on this road?”

“Just the Murder Hut,” Stan says, “Why?”

Rick nods to the rear view mirror. Stan grabs it and twists for a better look. He frowns.

“You feelin’ negatively ‘bout this car, Rick?” He asks grimly.

“Yes Stan, I am feeling very _negatively_ about the car _following us!”_

“Want me to run ‘em off the road?”

Rick considers for a moment as the bumpy dirt road passes beneath them.

“Yeah, let’s get this out in the open.”

Stan breaks abruptly.

The car honks, and swerves around them to the left － and Stan pulls forward and over, in front of the car.

The car swerves off the road, brakes leaving deep troughs in the grass, and slides to a stop in the underbrush, horn still blaring.

Rick opens his door before Stan even comes to a complete stop.

He rushes to the other car, and scrabbles at the handle. He pulls it open and drags the struggling driver out by the neck of his shirt. A girl screams.

He gets two punches in on the driver before Stan grabs him.

“Rick － it’s just some kid! Rick!”

The teenage boy struggles in his grip, sobbing, “We were just lookin for a place to go parking man, don’t hurt me don’t hurt me!”

“Me either!” his date wails.

“Well, uh, stay off of private property!” Stan says, and pulls Rick back into the Stanley-Mobile.

* * *

“What the hell was that?!” Stan shouts, pacing about the kitchen as Rick sits with a drink.

“Well,” Rick begins in a measured tone, “We drove a couple teenagers off the road－”

“I was _there_ Rick － why the hell would you tell me to do that?!”

“If you had objections you could have, could’ve, uh _voiced them_ instead of _offering_ , Stan!”

“I trusted your judgement!” Stan says

“Well I guess _that_ was fucking stupid!” Rick says, “I’m the asshole that left you in a Colombian jail cell, why would you trust _me?_ Consider it a life lesson, Stan!”

Stan’s nostrils flared, and he pulled out a chair and sat heavily, across from Rick.

“I trusted your _judgment_ , not _you_ ,” he says, after a long moment, “and I don’t need any goddamn life lessons, _Sanchez_ － I left people behind in Colombia too.”

There’s a ringing silence.

“So, yanno, it’d, be, uh, pretty hypocritical of me to…” Stan shrugs.

“It was different, though,” Rick says, quietly, “we were supposed to be, you know. _Friends_ , or, or, _something_. You _should_ be mad.”

Stan makes a face, and shrugs again.

“Who’d you leave behind then,” Rick says, “someone important?”

“Eh,” Stan says.

“Were you…” Rick makes an obscene gesture with his hands.

“Why do you wanna know, Rick?” Stan says.

Rick wants to know how comparable the situations really were. How much of a betrayal it had actually been. If Stan genuinely had been equally as much of an asshole in Rick’s aftermath, as Rick had been when he left.

There’s also a small, ugly part of him that wants to know who Stan has been fucking since they parted ways.

“Just curious,” he says, nonchalantly.

“Nah,” Stan says, “just. You know. Jail friends. Not like I had better company.”

“Oh,” Rick says.

The silence stretches again, and Rick takes a drink.

“I hadn’t thought about him in years,” Stan admits, “not like…” he trails off, glancing at Rick, and Rick meets his gaze over his drink. Stan clears his throat and looks away. “Don’t even remember what he looked like. Only other gringo in the cell block, but other than that －” he shrugs. “Something reminded me of him, I dunno.”

Rick nods, and Stan coughs.

“Anyways － you said you made some shit so we can sleep soundly tonight?” Stan asks.

“Yeah,” Rick says, with relief that is probably obvious, “built some shit to set up in the woods. It’s uh, in the uh, basement.”

“Good,” Stan says, as they rise from the table and head for the basement, “I’ve got some thoughts.”

“That’s new,” Rick snipes half-heartedly.

Stan gives him a look of pure exhaustion, and Rick shrugs in apology.

“What I was thinking, is, we don’t need to be on the offensive,” Stan says, stepping into the elevator, “guys comin’ after us, right?”

“Yeah,” Rick says as the doors close.

“So we just have to draw him out.”

“ _And_ keep ourselves alive,” Rick adds, pointedly.

“Speaking of － this shit you rigged up. What's it gonna do?”

They step out of the elevator, and Rick hunches a little, “uh, stop anybody coming near this dumb shack.”

“Yeah, okay － stop, what does stop mean?”

“Uh, _stop_ ,” Rick says.

“Okay but is it going to kill wandering teenagers?”

“Okay, okay － fine, I'll turn it down.”

* * *

They set up little turrets, forty feet apart. Rick passes a hand between them, and he blacks out.

He wakes up ten minutes later with Stan screaming and shaking his shoulders, wild eyed.

“It works then,” Rick slurs.

“You piece of shit,” Stan says, collapsing back onto his knees, “couldn't have chucked a squirrel through it?”

Nobody trips Ricks barrier that night, not even squirrels. It's hard to sleep with Stan tossing and muttering beside him, occasionally reaching over and pulling Rick close to him in his sleep.

* * *

Stan wakes him up at nine.

“How do we take it down?” Stan asks.

“Down?” Rick asks.

“Yeah, I got customers Rick,” Stan says, “this place doesn't pay for itself.”

Rick gropes around on the nightstand for the pager he'd found in the basement, and clicks a button.

“Done,” he says.

“It's off?” Stan asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Rick says, throwing an arm over his face.

“Doesn't look any different outside,” Stan says, looking out the window.

Rick says nothing.

He listens to Stan hover nervously for a moment, floorboards creaking. He sighs heavily.

Rick doesn't take the bait, and Stan leaves to open up the shop.

* * *

Rick spends his days alternating between glaring at customers in the gift shop and standing an impatient watch on the porch. Did anyone come by repeatedly? Anyone suspicious? Anyone _not_ the odd-ball townsfolk?

The locals spent a _weird_ amount of time perusing the Murder Hut’s limited merch. Rick wasn’t sure what that was about.

He goes to bed that night restless and unsatisfied － he’s almost relieved when the alarm is tripped.

* * *

He drags Stan out of bed, and they walk the perimeter with flash lights. Scanning for anything larger than a squirrel.

For a moment, he thinks they caught a badger or something － a brightly colored badger wearing _overalls_ － but his flashlight passes over it, and it’s gone when he scans back.

It must have been some kind of animal, but they don’t find it.

* * *

The next night they find a fried squirrel. Even the lowered voltage was too much for it’s tiny body.

In the morning, Stan stares balefully at him over a mug of sludge-like coffee.

“I can’t keep doin this, Rick.”

Rick stares at him wide eyed, vibrating with energy, “I’m, I’m, I’m keeping us safe, _Stanley_.”

“Are you on fucking amphetamines?” Stan asks, squinting at him suspiciously.

“No,” Rick says, shortly, crossing his arms, “and, and, I’m hurt that you’d ask.”

Stan clenches his jaw, and takes a long breath.

“Just fix it so it stops waking us up for _squirrels_.”

* * *

Rick wanders around the woods with a toolkit and some spare bits from the basement. He tinkers with his anchors.

He manages to tune the alarm to only alarm for animals with a mass of 45 kg or more － but he has to tone down the voltage to do it. It’s not doing much more than tingling, when he passes a hand through to take a look.

He tinkers some more, which is how Stan finds him that evening when the hut closes.

“You been out here all day?” Stan asks.

“What’s it look like, Stan,” Rick says, acidly.

“Looks like it’s time for dinner,” Stan says.

“I gotta fix this first,” Rick grumbles, unscrewing a panel.

Stan lays a heavy hand on Rick’s shoulder, “later － let’s get some food.”

“It’ll be dark later, you gonna hold a goddamn flashlight while I do this?” Rick asks.

“I know how you get, Rick,” Stan says.

“You don’t know shit, Stan Pines!” Rick says, whirling around to brandish a screwdriver at him.

Stan crosses his arms, and stares at him impassively.

Rick’s lip curls － but his stomach grumbles too.

“Fine － lets go to the diner. An alarm system is good enough for now.”

* * *

They pull into the hut’s dirt parking lot, back from the diner. Stan nods at Rick’s rental car as they climb out of the Stanleymobile, “Getting your money’s worth out that?”

Rick rolls his eyes, “O-obviously not.”

Stan wrinkles his nose.

“You think I-I should bring it back huh?” Rick asks, “Cheapskate.”

“Your money, pal,” Stan says, fussing with his keys.

“Fine, whatever,” Rick says, “let’s drive up to the city.”

“What, now?” Stan asks.

“Wouldn’t w-want to waste any more money,” Rick says snidely.

“Well what else are we going to do tonight,” Stan says.

They stare at each other, Stan’s key in the door.

“Yeah, let’s do it now,” Rick says.

They turn around, and Stan climbs back in the car, while Rick starts up the rental for the first time in days.

* * *

It’s very late by the time they head back to Gravity Falls, rental safely returned. It had been odd driving it – the road looked different from three feet to the left, and the seats had been different. Climbing back in the Stanleymobile had felt… right. Rick looks over at Stanley in the dark, the headlights just barely casting back on his face.

Rick scowls, turns to look out the passenger side window – and just barely catches headlights in the side mirror as he turns.

They are back in the boonies, driving through deep forests. No reason a tourist would be driving this late, but also not unheard of.

Stanley hums to himself as they go around a corner. Rick keeps an eye on the headlights behind them.

They’re just far enough that they blip out around the turns － he could almost fool himself into thinking it was a different car. But no, he and Stan are definitely being followed.

“Stan,” he says, as the make the turn into the road leading to gravity falls, heading over the cliffs.

“You caught it too, then,” Stan says. His expression is still relaxed, but his voice is serious.

“Yeah,” Rick says, “How you want to handle this?”

“I don’t want it to go down at the shack,” Stan says grimly, “Sheriff's too sharp, could drop by. We don’t want her involved.”

“Can’t get ‘em with the traps anyways. What you thinking instead?”

“Take it some other place,” Stan says, and glanced over his shoulder. The moon gleams off the lake behind him.

“I know a spot on the lake,” he adds, “abandoned boat launch, down a dark road. They’ll be no mistake then － definitely not some shitty teenager looking for a place to park.”

“Yeah I d-don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with,” Rick says.

Stan glances over at him, silently. Rick reads into it.

“You s-seriously think this is paranoia?” Rick asks, heatedly, “we-we were fuckin, fuckin _molotoved_ , Stanley! And we’re being followed at night? You think this is coincidence?”

“Well, I’m at least entertaining the notion!” Stan says, “So y’don’t have to haul off and punch a goddamn kid, okay, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Oh fuck you,” Rick says.

“I’m taking this seriously, okay?” Stan says, “So save your goddamn pity party for some other time.”

They wind down the steep roads, past the gap in the rails where Stan faked his death. Rick’s throat is tight.

Coming in to town, they pass the turn to the mystery shack, and the leather under Stan’s hands creak as his knuckles grow white on the steering wheel.

Stan abruptly steps on the gas, swinging the car around broadly to the left to turn abruptly right at full speed, crunching through a gate slung between trees in front of a dark, closed road.

Stan picks up speed as much as is possible without crashing. The road is bumpy, and Rick throws his hand up, thudding on the roof of the car, to prevent his head from doing the same.

Rick catches the headlights blinking through the trees behind them, and exhales heavily as they bump along.

Stan eases on the breaks as the boat launch comes into sight, a gentle dirt slope into the dark lake, after the trees open up unto a brief, grassy beach. He throws the car into reverse, and backs in between the trees along the road. He turns off the car.

Without the noise of the engine the silence is abrupt and stifling.

They hold their breath as the trees light up yellow, the headlights of the other car casting broad, bouncing shadows as it approaches. It pulls past them, slowing down and pulling up by the launch.

Stan quickly turns the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. He gives the gas a short punch, and the Stanley Mobile has blocked the other car’s exit.

Rick and Stan scramble out of the far side of the Stanley Mobile, tripping over themselves and each other and the upholstery. They kneel in the muddy grass and peer over the hood and trunk, respectively.

The other car － a boxy, cream-colored sedan, turned grey by the moonlight － idles. The lights go off and the engine dies.

A figure steps out. Rick squints as his eyes adjust to the absence of the yellow glow of the headlights.

Pale hair. A man.

“I thought you were _dead_ , Stan Pines,” the man shouts, “until your _boyfriend_ showed up.”

They hear the click of a gun cocking.

Rick thinks through the contents of his pockets. Bits and bobs from his work on the traps around the shack. Nothing inherently useful. He turns to look at Stan at the opposite end of the car, and is startled to see Stan has moved to join him by the hood.

Stan ushers him around the edge of the car, just as the man steps around the trunk of the car.

With a _crack_ a bullet whizzes into the dirt.

“Who is this guy?” Rick hisses, as they rise to a stoop and move around to front of the man’s car, by the lake.

Stan gives him a baffled look and shrugs with one shoulder. They take up positions at the headlights.

“Did you think I was dead?” The man calls across the cars, “that’s what you left me for! For dead!”

His voice cracks. It sounds like it’s coming from the left.

They ease around the hood of the pinto to the right, the mud and grass sinking under their feet. A _crack_ , a bullet _tinks_ off the hood of the pinto. Rick glances back, and sees the powder of the muzzle flare illuminated in the moonlight.

With his attention behind him his foot slips in the mud and he tumbles into Stan.

Stan stumbles in turn, and he loses his footing, stepping crosswise in an attempt to regain his balance. He stumbles down the boat launch, foot plunging noisily into the water.

“Stan!” Rick hisses, reaching instinctively for him.

A bullet whizzes into the water. Rick looks up and his gaze focuses on the barrel of the gun leveled on them － and past it, to the weathered face of the blond man holding it.

The man breathes heavily, nostrils failing. Stan is half kneeling in the water, frozen, with Rick’s hand on his shoulder.

There’s a long, stretching silence.

“You don’t recognize me,” the man says, finally.

“Ehhh,” Stan says.

“I thought we were _friends_ ,” the man says, “more fool me.”

There’s another silence, “Seriously?!” the man asks, his voice pitching up.

Rick winces, and Stan mutters, “The voice is ringing a bell. Or cracking one.”

“Oh is it?” the man shrieks.

They wince again.

“You don’t remember me? Two _gringos_ in that whole damn prison － I thought we were supposed to stick together, _Stanley!_ ”

“Oh!” Stan says, “You’re, uh, _Charles_ , no －” he snaps his fingers, “Chester! Chester! From Colombia!” he laughs, “How are you doing, man? Imagine seeing you here!”

Chester laughs, notes of hysteria in his voice, “ _Imagine_ － Imagine your friend left you behind. In jail. In a foreign country.”

He moves his arm and fires the gun across the lake. Stan flinches at the noise, and Rick squeezes his shoulder with two fingers. Stan turns his head almost imperceptibly, and Rick just barely sees the whites of his eyes.

Stan nods very slightly.

“But you don’t have to imagine, _do you_ Stan? Oh no, I heard all about how _deplorable_ , _dastardly,_ dick-wad Rick Sanchez _abandoned_ you!”

Stan’s weight shifted back very slightly into Rick’s hand on his shoulder.

Rick’s throat felt tight again.

“Imagine being the kind of hypocrite that would turn right around and do that to your own friend!”

“Ehhhh,” Stan says, “ _friend_ is a strong word,” raising his hands to put quotations around _friend_.

A gunshot whizzes by Stan’s head. Rick presses just one finger into Stan’s shoulder.

“I mean, Rick and I were _fucking_ ,” Stan says, climbing to his feet, the water sloshing around him, “ _that_ fucking hurt － what were we, _Chester?_ What did you say? The only gringos in Colombian prison?”

Chester’s hand shakes on his gun.

“Did you want, _what_ , a hug and a pat on the back before I left?” Stan asks, spreading his arms and stepping towards him, up the slope of the boat launch.

Chester’s finger twitches on the trigger － and Stan lunges for it as the gun goes off. The final bullet tears through the web of his hand, between his thumb and forefinger. He crashes into Chester, and they both stumble into the water.

Rick rushes forward as Stan pulls his hand back to his chest.

“Don’t flinch you idiot!” Rick shouts, “get the gun!”

It’s too late, Chester rises, dragging water up with him, and clocks Stan across the face with it.

“Shit!” Stan says, staggering back, blood seeping from his hand and dripping into the water.

Rick had stayed dry, and he comes in on the higher ground of the boat launch － he barrels into Chester with his boney shoulder. Chester stumbles back into the water, his feet going out from other him.

“A little _help_ , Stan!” Rick says, scrambling into the water, trying to get a grip on Chester's throat as Chester alternates punching and swinging the gun around, “I-I-I can’t blunt force trauma him without a blunt force! That’s _generally_ your job!”

Chester gasps and splashes, still flailing dangerously.

“Sorry, I just got _shot_ in my punching hand,” Stan says, staggering forward to join Rick

“You have another!” Rick shouts.

“Punching in water doesn’t really －” Stan begins, but Chester abruptly lashes out with his foot, pushing back into the deeper water with a kick off on Rick’s shin.

Rick hisses. The boat launch is steep, and Chester is up to his chest already. He hops away from them, the undignified bobbing motion of a man almost out of his depth, holding the gun above water. He fishes in his pockets for bullets and starts loading the gun above his head.

Rick struggles after him, his height helping him move a little fast. Chester gets one bullet loaded, and points the gun back at Rick. They are only feet apart － he won’t miss, but Rick thinks wildly, wonders if the soggy gun will even fire, if that will matter at such a short distance － could it still expel the shell, even weakly? It wouldn’t need much to kill him at this range.

The gun cocks, Chester’s finger is on the trigger － and rows and rows of white teeth flash by.

Chester is gone.

The dark silhouette of an eel-like monster rises above them, casting an enourmous shadow over them, the moon totally eclipsed － and it sinks back into the lake.

Stan and Rick stumble as one back to shore.

“What the _fuck_.”

* * *

There’s no body to hide. They roll the sedan into the lake, and get back in the Stanley Mobile. They pause at the turn onto the road, and together they look it over to be certain the distinctive red paint of Stan’s car isn’t caught in the wreckage of the gate. There is nothing to see.

A busted gate, some tire marks － by the time anyone checks it out, may as well have just been some teenagers parking.

They dry off at the Murder Hut.

They’re still shivering as the sun comes up. Rick sits at the table, dressed in Stan’s clothes － boxers, a t-shirt, both hanging off of him, the material soft and worn － and Stan hovers over the stove, heating a pot of water.

He fixes them warm drinks － brandy, honey, water － and sits down across from Rick.

They sip at their drinks.

“That’s it then,” Stan says, voice a little rough. He coughs a little. “Just one asshole － no cartel. You’re as safe as you were before, anyways. And your family.”

“Yeah, I, uh, guess I am,” Rick says, “I can uh, head out anytime then, huh.”

“If you didn’t want to stay and, you know, help me out with that portal problem － without the distraction of murder.”

“I guess I didn’t get much of a chance to look at it,” Rick says, staring contemplatively into the steam rising out of his mug.

“You don’t owe me anything, Rick.”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees.

There’s a long silence.

“But uh, you don’t have to make a decision _now_ , anyways,” Stan says, looking out the window, “been a long day. Probably uh, you know. Something to sleep on.” He looks back across to Rick.

Rick meets his gaze across his the table. Stan has a streak of mud under his eye, but he’s not underground, or in ashes.

“Something to sleep on,” Rick agrees.


End file.
